


Split-tongued, Venom-survived

by Ias



Category: Original Work
Genre: Banter, Blood Drinking, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Tribadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 06:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6646687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The time comes when Aida makes the journey again, to the house in the woods where hunger lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Split-tongued, Venom-survived

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



> Just realized that I forgot to fill in the "gift to" box for this treat until now--my bad ;)

****

The winding road up the mountainside is a lonely one, exactly as Aida prefers it. At times she stops, an ear cocked to the breeze, and listen—but the sound of footsteps always resolves into the crack of a deer in the darkening woods, or the sighing of the cold wind bearing down from the north. She pulls her cloak tighter around herself, and keeps moving.

The sound of her partner’s voice is still a bitter memory lodged between her ears. “Feeling alright?” he had asked as Aida donned her cloak and gear. She had made sure that the silver-tipped stakes in her belt were all polished and present, a decision her partner had keenly noticed. His question was rhetorical. “You’re looking a little jumpy for a regular patrol. Unless there’s something you aren’t telling me?”

Aida had not met his gaze. Her fingertips itched as if ants were swarming inside of them. Every beat of her heart drove the sensation home. “We need more information on where to find the nest, Sarecks. They’ll keep hunting until we wipe them out.”

“They _all_ need to be wiped out,” he’d replied. Sarecks was never kind, but at other times he could be a real bastard. Like now.

“She’s our best source for this kind of thing. Do you want to throw that way?”

“Don’t pretend that’s what this is about. You just need your fix, and so that one’s off limits.”

Aida had slid the final stake into her belt, and run a hand over the well-worn wood. “Yes, she is. As long as you understand that, I don’t care what else you have to say.”

Sarecks had laughed, though there was no humor in it. “No, I suppose you don’t. Have a nice trip, Aida. You know what happens if you come back looking even the slightest bit peaky.”

Aida had said nothing. She knew.

There are no castles in this part of the world, though in her travels Aida has seen plenty. There was always something about those monuments of stone that attracted a certain kind of occupant. Maybe it was the age. Maybe it was the prestige. Or maybe most of them had simply been around for long enough that they didn’t see a point in moving out. But here, no castles had ever been built from the rolling hills and woods. It’s a place for squat cottages and rambling villas, places open to the sun. But the sun was behind the clouds today, and now dusk is falling. Aida speeds her pace, eying the sloped branches of the trees that lined the path and seemed to lean over her as she passed.

Just when she is beginning to fear that she had not left in enough time, she rounds a familiar bend and sees the path that led off the main road, a track lined with wildflowers that nodded sleepily in the fading light. Aida sets down it, her boots crunching hastily over the ground. Not much further now. The itch under her skin seems to grow with every step closer she takes.  When the path opens up into a clearing with the whisper of a creek nearby, Aida’s heart is already beating hard in her chest. There, nestled up against the bank of the shallow river, is exactly what she came here for.

The house crouches against the purple darkness, its windows shuttered like hands covering its face. Its roof is of sod, the front of the house a spill of moonblossoms just now opening their pale faces to the sky. The garden contains only what plants need no care to survive—no vegetables, no food. It’s beautiful, built to look cozy and comfortable, but with all its doors and windows closed it looks like something already dead. Aida strides up to the door without hesitation. She knows it will be unlocked.

One thing that Aida has noticed is that every house has its own particular smell. Musty carpets, dried flowers, spices. Part of what makes it feel like home. As she stands at the threshold of the cottage, she smells absolutely nothing at all.

Beyond the open door the windows are all closed, as if night inside was less a time of day and more a state of being. Aida lingers with her toes pressing at the threshold. She can enter whenever she wants, of course. She is human, and unbound by the law of invitation. It’s an entirely different reason that makes her linger outside, her heart beating fast in her chest.

From the darkness, something uncurls. A feeling, not a sight. A sense of drawing closer.

“Enter.” The voice is spoken as a command. Anger clenches in Aida’s chest—she wishes she could turn and follow the road back the way she came, that she could make a better choice than the one before her. But going back is not an option. She has no choice but to obey. She steps inside, and shuts the door behind her.

The blue dark of dusk is squeezed into a sliver, then shut like an eye. Aida is blind. But she does not tense at the sound of movement shifting from somewhere within the cottage—the creak of wood and hinges, the slide of fabric, the quiet slipping of feet over the stone.

“I thought you might return sooner.” The voice grows on the air like a fur of mold, soft and unwholesome. Aida stands very still, making an effort to control her breathing, slow her heart, paint the utter darkness around her with the shapes she knows are waiting there.

There are four rooms in the cabin—the main room she stands in now, a bedroom, a kitchen, and a cellar which Aida has never been permitted to see. She has the layout carefully memorized with the diligence of knowing it might one day save her life. From the direction of the bedroom, directly back from the door where she stands, a tiny golden light flickers into being.

She has never seen the inside of this place in anything but this wavering candlelight. The house has been revealed to her in fragments, a globe of sight that travels around the room wide enough for Aida to circle in her arms. All of her sight memories are carefully packaged that way, small, disconnected glimpses, like watching life through a pinhole. As the woman steps out of the bedroom, candle held aloft, her face fills the entire world.

Even now, even after so many times, Aida feels her heart go still. The woman’s face is painted golden by the candlelight, lending it a warmth that Aida knows is not really there. Her eyes are brown, dark things, filled with pupil the way water fills a well. But it is her mouth that Aida’s eyes flit to, an immediate unthinking impulse. It is a red, wide mouth, set with full lips almost disturbing in their exaggerated appeal. Like a flower, Aida thinks hazily, a flower that lures only to drown its victims in nectar.  

Aida feels the usual prickle on the backs of her thighs, the twisting deep in her gut. Her hand tightens on her belt. She hates herself for her body’s response, of course, but in moments like these she hates herself for many things. Yet here she is all the same.

“Hello, Pietra,” Aida says.

“So tell me,” the mouth says, for Aida cannot tear her eyes away from it. “Are you here for business?” The alternative lolls unsaid between them, as lascivious as the smile on Pietra’s face. There was a time when Aida would have made her pay for her insolence. But she has long since learned that every action carries an equal and opposite consequence, and the price Pietra asks always higher than it is worth.

“There’s a nest,” Aida says without fanfare. “I need your help in locating it.”

“Straight to business. You aren’t in a hurry, are you?” Pietra glides forward, never moving towards Aida directly—she drifts around the perimeter of the room, keeping a healthy distance between them. For Aida’s own comfort, or for her own safety? It is impossible to say. Her motions are hypnotic, inhuman—those who have never seen one of her kind say they move like predators, smooth as tigers or as suddenly as hawks. They are wrong. Pietra moves like a cosmic body, animated by forces greater than blood and bone. Everything she does is inevitable.  

She stops at the table and sinks down into one of the chairs, setting the candle before her. It glints in her eyes, three points of light. One hand, its fingers just slightly too long, raises to gesture to the seat across from her. “Sit.”

“I’m fine here.”

Pietra’s face remains inscrutable, except for a tiny twitch in her smile. “Need I remind you that you are here because you want something from me? Or would you rather be on your way?”

A moment passes. Stiffly, Aida sinks into the chair.

“Better,” Pietra says. “Now. Tell me about this nest.”

Aida takes a breath, tries to focus. It’s easier said than done in Pietra’s presence, when they both know what’s coming. The knowledge is like a slanted floor, pitching Aida inexorably towards that wide, red mouth.

“The nest is somewhere within the local town of Brasolov. We’ve been searching for over a week now, and every night more victims are taken. We’re beginning to think that one of villagers themselves must be sheltering the nest from us.”

“Humans helping vampires? I can hardly imagine.”

Aida ignores her. “If that be the case, we may never be able to discover them ourselves. We’ve lost people, too. Three hunters so far. The nest is dug in deep. I don’t know that we’ll be able to find them in time.”

Pietra toys with the base of the candlestick, that infuriating smile still on her face. “And you think I can help you.”

“I _know_ you can help, Pietra. Don’t play this game with me now.”

“Ah, Aida,” she says, clucking her tongue. “You do get so terse. You should have come to see me sooner.”

Aida looks away, her fingers drumming on the tabletop. After a moment, Pietra sighs.

“Yes, of course I can help,” she says. “And I will. For a price.”

“Innocent people are dying,” Aida says. “You don’t feel any inclination to help for their benefit?”

“Hm. No, it seems I don’t. How could I deny you the opportunity to play the hero? It suits you better than me.”

“Yes, you’re very good at exploiting the suffering of others.”

“You’d have me work for free? Do you know what the rest of my kind would do to me if they found out I was talking to you?”

Aida smiles thinly. “Do you think it would be better or worse than what they’d do to me?”

At that, Pietra laughs. “Now there is an interesting question. I hope neither of us ever get an answer.”

Aida finds her eyes drifting to the corners of the room, which are no corners at all—the light of the candle does not reach that far. They could be sitting in the middle of an open void. “The usual price then, I assume.”

“Why would you assume that? It’s a large nest, and dangerous.” Pietra tilts her head. “I will accept the usual payment, but this time I want it in advance.”

“What? Are you—” Aida bites off the end of her sentence before she can condemn herself with a rejection. Her hand on the table tightens into a fist, then slowly, deliberately relaxes. “Why?”

Pietra shrugs. “Because I am hungry now. And I can tell that you are too.” Her mouth is as red as raw meat, her teeth a grin of bone within.

Aida feels something travel over her skin, like swimming in murky water and feeling something brush her foot. “That’s not why I came here.”  

Pietra’s hand moves as quickly as—well. It hardly matters, does it? For her hand latches around Aida’s wrist before Aida can jerk it away, and all at once Aida cannot move. Her eyes are riveted to Pietra’s grip, the way the knuckles push up through the skin like teeth in a pale smile. It is as if Aida is a puppet with her strings cut, or perhaps just set aside—waiting for another puppeteer to pick them up again.

“Look at me, Aida,” Pietra says quietly, and Aida can do nothing but obey.

Pietra’s eyes are as dark as two holes punched in her face, revealing the vast blackness all around them. Her mouth is in the tenderest of smiles, and that softness is also a lie.

“Why are you ashamed to ask for what you need?” Pietra murmurs. Her grip has slacked now that she no longer needs it. Her thumb rubs over the bone in Aida’s wrist, a motion which threatens to swallow all of Aida’s attention. She is painfully aware of her own skin, her own sensations, her own heart pounding in every pulse point. Her veins are tendrils of mold beneath the skin. She needs this. She’s needed it for so long.

And then the contact is gone, whisked away as quickly as a candle going out. But the light still flickers over Pietra’s face as she rises to her feet, and Aida cannot bring herself to even reach for a weapon.

“Let me take care of you,” she says. “And you can take care of me.”

Perhaps Aida had lied. In this moment, it feels very much as if this is the reason she came here for.

 

 

She follows Pietra into the bedroom. They are moving into the ritual now, the familiar patterns which have served them both for—years? A decade? Pietra does not age, and Aida has no mirror to tell the passage of time on her face. However much has passed, it has been enough. They both know the steps, and fall into them with practice.

It is not Pietra’s power that makes Aida act as she does. The first few times she told herself that it was, that she hadn’t had a choice. It always helped, casting Pietra as a monster, until the time came when Aida would inevitably return once again. There was always a reason, a different intent—she needed information, she needed a messenger, she was _really_ going to kill her this time—but somehow, they always ended up here. Somehow. It was easier to think in sentences without subjects, words detached of blame or causation.

Aida unbuckles the belt with her stakes and knives, and lies it carefully across the dresser. The candle flickers on the table beside Pietra’s bed, a light so dim that the room is broken apart, dragged halfway into shadow. Aida’s boots and jacket go on the floor a short distance away—the rest of her clothes stay on. She has learned that Pietra enjoys removing them herself. Aida has also learned that she herself enjoys it, too. Pietra’s clothes, however, are already gone by the time Aida turns back around. She stands clothed only in swaths of light and shadow, a collection of dissected limbs, a pale grin hanging above them all.

“On the bed, my dear,” she says, and when Aida obeys the command it is because she wants to.

Aida may not know how long it has been before she and Pietra formed this agreement, but she knows exactly how long it has been since Pietra last took her blood. Every day the itch in her veins grows a little harder to ignore. Every night, her dreams are tinted darker red. Yes, she understands why her partner—the only hunter who knows of this arrangement—looks at her in disgust. Aida needs the bite just as badly as Pietra does, an addiction of the mind rather than the flesh. There will be many long nights when the thought will stave Aida off from sleep, guilt and self-loathing churning in her stomach. But not tonight. Tonight, she knows, she will sleep like the dead.

She lies on her stomach on the bed, folding her arms beneath her cheek. From the dark room around her, there is only silence—Pietra makes no sound as she moves. And so when her hands dip down to begin loosening Aida’s clothing, she cannot help but tense under the unexpected touch. Piece by piece she is disrobed, shifting to help at times, Pietra’s hands sliding slowly but chastely over the skin she exposes. It isn’t long before Aida is kneeling on the bed with Pietra at her back, the cool air of the room like feathers over that wash of exposed skin.

“Relax,” Pietra says from behind her. Her hands rise to trace the scars that cross Aida’s back, mementos from her line of work. Aida remembers the story behind every one of them, if Pietra ever cared to ask. She never does. Perhaps neither of them like to be reminded of what the other does outside of this room. All that matters now are Pietra’s hands sliding up and down her back, kneading her tension away.

“You’re lucky you came here when you did,” Pietra says. “If you had waited any longer your muscles might have turned to wood.”

Aida grunts noncommittally. With Pietra’s caresses, she would be well on her way to sleep already, if it weren’t for the different sort of tension that lingers deeper in the flesh. Slowly, inevitably, Pietra’s grip on her shoulders grows tighter—she pushes Aida forward, until she’s on her hands and knees with Pietra pressed to her back. Pressing her forehead between Aida’s shoulder blades, Pietra breathes deep, inhaling her scent. Aida feels the weight of her, and in spite of herself, it’s a comfort. But her body allows no time for simple pleasures. She feels her heartbeat like a hammer blow that slams into her entire body. _Peace, peace_ , it cries, _give me peace_.

“Pietra,” Aida begins, and she cannot hide the tremble in her voice.

She feels Pietra’s low, dark chuckle unroll against her skin before she can find the strength to continue. “I wonder what it is about me,” she muses, as her nose drags a slow path up Aida’s back, up her neck. “What it is that can turn a surly, battle-hardened hunter into little more than a blushing virgin.”

Anger is like a spark to the oil already pumping through Aida’s veins. She makes to lever herself up, to twist around and do _something_ —but as always, Pietra is quicker. Her fingers lace into Aida’s hair and shove her face into the pillows. She’s pitched forward with a muffled cry, and pinned with no chance of escape. The heat between her legs flares. She can feel Pietra’s thigh pressing against her, but it’s not enough.

Pietra’s mouth has reached Aida’s neck, where it presses a slow, contemplative kiss. Aida’s toes curl. Her fingers dig into the sheets. Neither reaction goes unnoticed. Aida takes a shuddering breath, turning her head to the side so that the pillow beneath her doesn’t smother her. “You know better than anyone that I’m no virgin.”

Aida laughs again, and presses the length of her bare body against Aida’s bowed back. Her skin is cool, and there’s a hardness to it that betray what she truly is. An island trader once showed Aida a piece of sharkskin, rough scales that snagged at her fingertips. Pietra’s skin is something like that, another piece of her that isn’t at all human. The feel of it ignites something in Aida’s flesh, the knowledge of what’s coming rushing towards her like the head of an avalanche.

“I know,” Pietra whispers against her neck. Aida can feel Pietra’s hips grinding down against her, the wetness of Pietra’s sex rubbing on her skin, taking her pleasure as she pins Aida in place. It’s all Aida can do not to try and flip them over, to take control, to get what she wants at last. She would slide her leg between Pietra’s thighs, let the other woman go half-crazy rubbing herself off on it—she would take Pietra’s cunning fingers and put them to much better use than simply stroking her hair…

“You know, people really underestimate you,” Pietra says, her voice rough and raspy with the sensations traveling through her. “For such a sweet face, your thoughts are obscene.”

Aida tenses even more than she already was. “You can’t read my mind.”

“I don’t have to.” Pietra’s tongue flicks against her ear, and Aida can’t summon the will to feel ashamed at how it makes her body shudder. All at once Aida _is_ flipped over, but it’s Pietra who remains on top—she stares down at Aida’s face, teeth bared in a grin as she tangles their legs together, drags her own knee up the inside of Aida’s thigh until it’s pressed up against her sex. Aida swallows, feeling the heat between her legs rise up into her face—Pietra holds her gaze, simply letting Aida feel the pressure of her leg, nothing more.

“Move,” Pietra commands, and with a shuddering breath, Aida does. Pietra watches her grind her own pleasure out, satisfaction dripping like poison from her eyes. Aida tries to keep her face composed, tries to show Pietra that this means nothing at all to her, really—but Pietra’s hands are not idle, and when they slide up over her breasts to flick at her nipples she cannot stop the moan that slips out of her throat.

Pietra kisses her then, lazy and opened mouthed, as if Aida’s desperation is something sweet and rare to be savored slowly. Aida has enough presence of mind to turn her head away, but not enough that she doesn’t want to kiss Pietra back. She knows better. Not with what Pietra is.

Pietra laughs, low and cruel against Aida’s cheek as she presses their faces together.

“Such a pretty little fool,” she whispers, knowing how much Aida hates the words. “If my mouth is so abhorrent to you, perhaps I ought to simply bring you off and send you on your way.” Her hand slides up to the base of Aida’s throat, just tight enough that it becomes hard to breathe. “I would do that for you, you know,” she whispers. “You need offer me nothing in exchange. No more bargains, no more trades. You could pretend that I was only human, a lover to be cherished whenever you desired.”

The vision of living such a lie makes Aida’s stomach twist in revulsion, but Pietra’s hand on her throat stops her from pulling away. She doesn’t ignore the flicker in Aida’s eyes, though. She laughs again.

“I thought not. Then if you know what it is you want from me, then ask it with a kiss.”

Slowly, Aida turns her face to Pietra’s again. They’re so close that their noses press together, Pietra’s face little more than a blur of darkness before her. She can feel Pietra’s knee between her legs, moving now that Aida has gone still. It tugs at her like the currents of a river, moments from carrying her away.

She meets Pietra’s eyes for a moment, lets the anger and defiance flare even though (or perhaps because) she knows it will only please Pietra further. Then she leans forward and presses a slow, close-lipped kiss to Pietra’s red mouth, her killing organ, her vital weapon.

For a moment Pietra is still, until she is certain that Aida is not going to pull away. She presses closer then, running her tongue over the seam of Aida’s lips, then past it, flicking into Aida’s mouth with the curiosity of a snake. When she pulls back, her teeth catch Aida’s lower lip for one brief moment, and light flashes behind Aida’s eyes. This time she makes no effort to quiet her moan.

Pietra’s arms curl around Aida, holding her close, pinning her down. “I can’t wait any longer, either. Though I do so like seeing you like this, Aida. So unhinged.” Her mouth opens, that lovely rot of softness, and there’s something hard beneath. It drags over Aida’s skin like the point of a knife and she cannot help but lean into it, the merciless pounding in her head filling her entire being. She feels Pietra sigh. Then, she feels her bite down.

There is, of course, a moment of intense agony.

When it fades—

_When it fades—_

_Oh, god—_

Aida feels herself pouring into Pietra like gulps of thick, sweet honey. The heartbeat is everything, now. It pounds on, relentless, funneling through the one point in Aida’s neck—distantly she realizes that her body is whimpering, is driving itself against Petra’s body with single-minded intensity. She does not care. She does not stop.   _Take it all_ , she thinks, arching up against Pietra’s weight above her. _Oh please yes god take it all—_

 _S_ he can feel Pietra grinding back against her, powerfully enough to squeeze the breath from Aida’s lungs. She cannot breathe, Pietra is crushing her, and every inch of her is burning—and then Pietra pulls away, just enough to let her gasp for breath before Pietra’s death-grip squeezes around her once more. They’re trapped together in the cycle of pressure and relief, driven right to the edge and then yanked back again. And always Aida’s heart pounds through the both of them, turning slow and ponderous, each beat filling her up and hollowing her out all at once, until she knows that final beat will come and there will be nothing but the sensation of content.

When she comes back to herself, it is her own voice babbling over the heavy silence of the bedroom, her own words begging Pietra please, don’t stop. But her heart is still beating, though slower and weaker than before, and Pietra is laughing softly into her hair. Aida bites down on her tongue, struggling to control herself—but she can’t reign in the desire, the knowledge that even now she doesn’t want Pietra to stop drinking her dry. In the wake of it, Aida is exhausted.

“One day, perhaps,” Pietra says, and they both know that Aida will never see the place on the other side of that final beat. They lie entwined on the bed, Aida’s skin slick with sweat and Pietra’s as cool and hard as ever. Strange, to have a lover made of stone. It’s only in moments like these, pressed close together with Pietra’s fingers drawing a contemplative pattern on Aida’s hip, that she can even think the word “love” in conjunction with what they do. Even now, it’s an ill-fitting label.

“I will find the nest you’re looking for tonight,” Pietra says. “In the meantime, rest here. In the morning, you bring your people victory.”

“Thank you,” Aida murmurs, too tired to think. If she was clearheaded, she would tell herself that she owes Pietra nothing. That Pietra is a monster, and every embrace, every bite, is something only to be endured. But the feeling of Pietra is still all around her, and the lies they tell themselves don’t matter.

Pietra pauses, her fingers on Aida’s hips stilling. “Of course,” she says after a moment, her voice soft and light, as if it were nothing. They both must keep up appearances. Every weakness that is not exploited is filed away for safekeeping.

“Sleep,” Pietra whispers, pressing a slow kiss to Aida’s cheek. Aida nods, the pillows soft against her cheek.

Aida will be gone come morning. But when her blood begins singing too sharply once more, she’ll be back. For now, within these four walls, with the cool roughness of Pietra’s body still lingering on her skin, that knowledge can feel almost like comfort.


End file.
